


Replay

by EmberTheUnknown



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Deja Vu, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I Only Update This When I'm Drunk Or Sad or Both, Immortality, Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division, M/M, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Reincarnation, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 20:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20345860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmberTheUnknown/pseuds/EmberTheUnknown
Summary: Welp, this is my first post on this site. Hopefully, it doesn't flop. Also, I did not proofread this shit - a problem for sober me and sober me alone.





	Replay

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, this is my first post on this site. Hopefully, it doesn't flop. Also, I did not proofread this shit - a problem for sober me and sober me alone.

"Look - if you don't believe me, just say it! Instead of nodding your head every two seconds like an idiot."

Dr Williams looked hardly troubled by Pete's outburst, yet still announced her dismay to his name calling - to which he did not regret. 

"Please, correct me if I'm wrong-" 

"You're wrong," he interrupted. This time, her expression leaked glimpses of her frustration out for the three-hundred year old to see. He smirked a the sight, then frowned once he decided he had more to add. "You're gonna go over my most recent persona, Arthur Sandman, because he's that you have proof actually existed. Then, repeat to me everything I just spent the last twenty six? No- twenty eight minutes telling you, and come to the dumb-ass conclusion of schizophrenia, are you not?"

Dumbfounded, Dr Williams took a moment to clear her throat and revoke the deer-in-headlights look before he could compare it one of an idiot too. 

"Well, actually, the correct diagnosis would be Dissociate Identity Disorder," she muttered in an airy voice.

"The correct diagnosis is bullshit because I don't have it!" 

The sound of his jolting teenage voice was able to distract himself from the sound of the black coffee recently perched on her desk, splattering across her hospital-white carpet. 

"I'm not crazy," he yelled, waving a finger daring close her face, "so don't try to tell me better, young lady, I know a lot more than you on this!" 

And with that, he marched from her room and through the centre, with a raised chin and dark eyes that told everyone in his way 'I'm crazier than I look'. 

Manoeuvring through and to the entrance of a centre he'd be referred to every goddamn century proved simple; by the third third lifetime, he had the whole place memorised like the back of his hand. Then, of course, they had reconstruct it and somehow turn the most linear of places into the IKEA's final boss. Leave it to humanity to ruin a good thing.

He'd almost completed his righteous march of rage from (now coffee-less) Dr Williams' door to the unusually full parking lot outside. That was, until he heard the sound of wheezing. 

Instinctively, he spun walked towards the sound.

'Just like the idiot in Scary Movie that somehow survives', he chided to himself, yet he continued to walk.

When he found the source, he was no more enthralled to find the red-faced fetus (his nickname for all kids under the age of 16) clinging on to the brick wall beside him for dear life, and slowly succumbing to the blackness he was seeing around him.

"No- hey, kid, stay with me!" 

Pete fitted two arms under his shoulders as support, and watched the young man burst alert and scramble to meet his eyes. His were an ocean blue, with red rims and rivers gushing from them quicker than he could even attempt to blink them away.

"I'm Pete, and you're having a panic attack right now. I need you to try to breathe." The boy nodded. "Can I touch your stomach?" 

The boy's breathing hitched and he shook his head a frantic and slightly disgusted 'no'. 

Pete frowned, unimpressed. "Fine, make this harder for me, kiddo."

He retracted an arm, and forced the kid's soft hands unto his own abdomen, watching to see if they were following or he needed to elaborate on that too.

“You need to copy my breathing. Slow breaths, in, out.”

He drilled on for the next ten minutes or so, allowing the kid to preposition his fingers, not flat against his stomach, but gingerly tracing the outlines of his abs through his shirt and blissfully unaware that Pete had acknowledged it; that and every glance their aquatic eyes sent to his full and pierced lips. 

“Alright, you’re fine now, get off me,” the dark-haired teen said. The other complied, and rested his back against the grime of the Youth Health Centre’s ivy-run walls - causing Pete to grimace. 

“It’s fine, I’m already sweating through this shirt already,” the kid spoke. 

Pete cherished it.

The watery nature of it, (courtesy of his most recent panic attack) the lullaby-like tune that Pete guessed was his ‘oh, I remember you, we did that thing together’ tone, a well-fitting autopilot for a five foot four blonde who wanted to convince the world he was as sweet as he looked. 

Pete just cherished it. 

Scaring his ‘patient’ (and himself) he straightened his spine, fastened a haught-less grin that neither knew he was capable and laughed. 

It didn’t matter how ridiculous he looked - he just needed to hear that voice again.

Pete, uncharacteristic and uncaring in the moment, shrugged him ‘you’re welcome’ to a thanks he had yet to receive and let the silence between them grow loose and breathy. He used to time to note the rose splotches still on the stranger’s cheeks, and the one tear that had still yet to fall from the eyelashes not hidden by his once-bronze fringe.

“You have remarkable eyes by the way.” Once he had caught the sound of his own voice, it finally occurred to him, the depths of far deep he had been lost in blue, twinkling amour - and he fled.

A ‘wait- no!’ rung from the corner that they had been standing in that - if he knew better - appeared to be followed by a chorus fast-pattering footsteps and asthmatic breaths he knew should’ve waited for.

Yet he didn’t. 

He made it in his car (one that astounded the blonde) and wasted not a second before turning the ignition and flooring it as far he could from what was his closest slip up yet. 

He gulped; never had he, in all sixteen years of Pete Wentz’s life, come so close to falling for another soul again. He couldn't. He promised himself that only Frank Iero, Travie McCoy, Paris Hilton and Arthur Sandman would ever know such pain. Not Pete. Blood drummed in his ears while his heart shattered as off-beat and renewed his oath to which ever being he presumed had cursed him with this twelfth life:

“I will never fall in love again.”


End file.
